By Anonymous

Posted on

The Breed

I don’t know if everyone feels this, but I strongly feel that we are a breed. The definition of “we” is vague, but you know, people like me, the ones who think like me, who like what I like, who loathe what I loathe.. we are a breed. We have similar aspirations… and similar disappointments when we get what we aspired for. We have similar dreams, and similar difficulties coping with how fast these dreams change. We have the same desire to scale large mountains and the same feeling of “now what” once we have reached the peak. Somehow, somewhere in my mind, I have the feeling that we are a breed. We don’t have a name, or a classification. We don’t look similar, or live in the same geography, or wear badges that identify us. The world doesn’t know we are there as a group, they probably think we are just a few scattered individuals. But sometimes I come across more of me… and I look at them, I hear them talk, I seem them smile, and I know they are from the same breed. I go back and think about all that I have wanted from life and from myself. The teenybopper-dom, the wild crazy “single” philandering lifestyle, the smartass arrogant business school phase, the corporate hoopla, the travel backpacking roaming-the-world nomad life, and I wonder how lucky I have been. And I wonder why I am still not satisfied. It’s like drinking a lot of water and still feeling terribly thirsty. Its like looking at a blurry image, its like wanting something and yet not knowing what you want. It is difficult to explain. And I feel I am not the only one on this ship. There are more of me. And we are all equally, utterly, profoundly confused.
In my thirst which refuses to be quenched, in the destination-less journey, I sometimes feel guilty. Guilty because somewhere deep inside I know I have been lucky. Lucky to have had the right opportunities, lucky to have had the right platform, lucky to have had the right people in my life who pushed or pulled me in the right directions. Lucky not to be born on the pavement, lucky not to have been abducted by the beggar mafia as a kid. I have seen people who forget their roots, I am not one of them. And yet, amidst it all I still feel I am thirsty. And guilty. Guilty for not being satisfied in spite of all that I have been blessed with. Guilty for having had everything I wished for. Guilty for not knowing what I actually want in the end, guilty about wondering if there is an end at all. I take some solace in the fact that I am not alone, but it doesn’t take away the feeling of guilt, even if I am in the midst of more of the guilty breed.
 — The person who wrote this, wishes to stay anonymous

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